Inspiration

A Small Promise

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4.22 A Small Promise

He said come here and hold me
All throughout the night.
I’d love to, Love, but I’m afraid
I promised I would write.

Your kisses make me smile
And your arms are my delight
But I’ve a second rendez-vous
I promised I would write.

For I’m a woman of my word
And words give no respite
I’ll come back to your warm embrace
I promised I would write.

Who knows how long I waited
For the muses to alight?
Cursing that I ever said
I promised I would write.

Your sleepy hands reached for me
In the waning white moonlight
I took your hands and kissed them
I promised I would write.

And I’m a woman of my word
And the words are tucked in tight
So kiss me love for I am here
I promised I would write.

With thanks to a Facebook Ad

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I used my prose way back in May
When I had useful things to say

And then in June I wondered why
My well of words was cracked and dry

I used my prose – such lovely thoughts
I wrote them out, those nimble plots

Those thankless letters left me there
Stuck with August everywhere

I scratched out words one at a time
I seeded prose in autumn rime

Ruminating through the cold
I felt the silence taking hold

I used my words way back in May
In March I had nothing to say

Till suddenly the prose came home
And settled in my finger bones

Perhaps I have new things to say
I only hope to last past May…

——

I saw a Facebook ad that was about a shampoo or something. In my haste to scroll by, my brain simplified the first sentence to “I started using prose in May.” The rest wrote itself very quickly, until the end. I have difficultly telling when my brain wants to end something hopefully for real, or if it’s pretending to ignore a reality that I don’t want to face. Not writing for months, for example, in any format. All my writing has been on ice for what feels like ages.

NaPoWriMo is starting in a week. I hope that gets my creative muscles flexing again.

Walls and Otherwise

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Walls and Otherwise

An edifice of sandstone, smooth and windswept.
One would think it was a cliff face
For all its length and height.
It is imposing.
It suggests impenetrability.
I walk to it, taking in the immense flatness of it.
My fingers press on its sun-warmed surface and am surprised to feel small, red granules roll away under my fingers and fall to my feet.
Hesitantly, I scratch the wall, watch flakes fall
and turn to dust.
I tap, grind, dig, emboldened.
The seemingly solid mass gives way begrudgingly
My hands will hurt tomorrow.
It would be easier to stop, but I’m insatiable.
Finally, a hand pops through the other side
The wall is not thick.
Simply a grand facade.
I reach through and there on the other side I can feel them brushing against my hands.
My words.

4.7, 4.8, and 4.9 for Good Measure

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The past few days, I’ve been toying with free-form verses that have a vaguely hip-hop aesthetic. I’m usually terrible at this, but then that’s the point of practicing, right? And that would be the point of this monthlong endeavor – to practice stretching out muscles and learning some new tricks!

Enjoy!

Post-Booze Brainstorm (4.7)

Buzzed with booze, a brain
Firing neurons terrified to lose
The wisdom of cups and relaxed blood flow
Is not done thinking
Chasing the siren song to dawn
Tied to the mast of exhaustion
Sinking in the unknown

Falling in Rain (4.8)

In Japan, it rains so heavily,
umbrellas are barely a remedy,
Rainfall patters out a melody where
I fall like a drop into reverie
Mess with the rhyme scheme
and pay a heavy penalty.
Soon words wild in anarchy
Make forms flown to thunderstorm cacophony
Little April showers ripped of all their piety
Best use that umbrella to fend off your anxiety
Lest you run down gullies of depravity
And settle into puddles of stagnant mediocrity.

Grey day Walking (4.9)

My mind is a Jane Eyre grey
Pinched in, cinched in every way
Until my voice goes quiet
And I lose the need to speak
People become my visual cues
Not to cross the streets
Muted eyes rest on blind sights
Unable to recognize my own fights
With attic-dwelling feelings
And a hollowed chest sounds a lone note
Suggesting fiery heights
Of deeper meaning
Lost in the repetition of day-to-day pattern
I do not wonder or wander, yet I do yearn
And hear the premonition
That the destruction of my worldly goods
Signal a break from Jane Eyre grey
And the woulds, coulds, and shoulds
Give way to brighter days.

NaPoWriMo Strikes…Again!

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It’s that time of the year again – it’s National Poetry Writing Month! And luckily, this year I’ve remembered that I do NaPoWriMo every year.

For the next 30 days, I will endeavor to put up a new poem every day. On days when this gets away from me – either because I’m reclining in the heat of a luxurious bed, or because I’ve been called to the mountaintops – I will post the necessary make-up poems as soon as possible.

So without further fanfare…Shall we write?

<strong>Day 1: A Poor Beginning (A Sonnet)</strong>

I’ll christen paper with this pen of mine
Or click the proper electronic links
I’ll edit out the words which do not rhyme
And iron out mistakes and awkward kinks

For what do I endeavor to unfold?
What hopes of mine do I intend to find?
A writer seeks to leave no truth untold
Even those that lurk within their mind

I pray the words from this my feeble brain
The crude and crumbly edges of this noise
That from my witless rambling you will gain
A speck of strength to speak with your own voice.

I’ll write a month of poems grand and dire
In hopes a better poet gets inspired!

Process: The Halloween Poem

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Every year I write a Halloween poem – most of the time I try to write a funny poem. When I was in college, I even wrote some performance Halloween poetry (which wasn’t that bad – I should try to find where I stored those).

Anyway, when I was working on this year’s poem, I got into a good rhyming flow, right up until this point:

I waited there so patiently
Out on the grassy hill
But not a soul came near to me
The air was light and still

So far, so good, even if I wasn’t a fan of the fourth line. I had a plan for where I thought this poem was going. It was going to tie into my being abroad. The original title for this poem was “Indifferent Spirits,” because I felt a real disconnect on Halloween. Normally I’m good at finding a spiritual connection on All Hallow’s Eve, but not tonight.  This poem was originally going to involve a bunch of ghosts wandering by, speaking Japanese and wondering what I kept talking to them in English.

The rhyme suggested a different path, and because I didn’t plot out this particular poem I followed. When it turned out the narrator was dead already (what a twist!) I realized that I had wanted to tell a very different story than a funny miscommunication piece.

The last line was a tough one, because my brain really wanted me to end on a scary note, not a funny one. The last four lines were to culminate in something like “There is no pleasure greater than/ a death on Halloween.” I thought this entirely too dark for my desire. While I wasn’t going to change the angle of the poem, I also didn’t want to end it on such a strong, morbid note. Better to go with the angle of time and Halloween, since I think that is what resonates more with a soul than the idea of accumulating more souls.

My brain was upset at this, because it was a really good rhyming couplet. But first thoughts are not always the best thoughts. I try to limit editing when doing a flow poem, but I think the writer has the ultimate authority to step in when tone takes a sharp left turn. Especially when its within his or her own voice.

 

 

Day 20! Day 21?

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Please be advised: Both of the poems contain swear words

 

Day 20: PvP

An algorithm won’t be an evil winner.
Won’t crow and send emoticons.
Won’t tell you that you lost well,
Or need more practice,
Or will get it next time.
An algorithm won’t write “suck it” in the chat space.
Won’t draw out the killing blow.
Won’t seek to make you feel small.

We fear the cold calculations a computer,

But I think I would prefer
A neutral nuclear winter
Than being beaten
By an anonymous asshole

 

Day 21:  My Muse has Flown the Coop

It’s not that I have nothing to say
It’s just been one of those dreary days
Where the sun is out and you can’t complain
And it’s just too nice to try and explain
There’s something not quite sitting right
In your heart, and try as you might
You can’t seem to get the sun inside.
So you plaster that smile on a bit too wide.
And maybe if you force it along
Make yourself whistle that catchy song
Then inspiration will show you some pity
And help you say something not so shitty.
Then again, maybe she too
Is in a sort of prickly mood
I guess that means no words today
Best button my lip and look away.
Nothing to see here! Nothing to read!
No poetry is guaranteed!

 

—-

This is what happens when you challenge yourself to write every day. There are dry spells, and dry spells are really hard when you have no time for them. These past couple of days have been so lacking in inspiration. And I’ve been busy being busy.

I mean it about PvP – I might get mad losing to a computer when I game, but it can be so much worse losing to some jerk you don’t know who delights in being a troll. Perhaps if I take a break from the games, I will find something to write about.